A Widower

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They danced to fold the blankets, stepping lightly,
apart, together, hands aloft, a dance
that harked back to an age of high romance.
They put in order what they disordered nightly.
The joy of making babies segued into
the joy of making beds, of making songs
up for their state-line-crossing singalongs,
of making clay bowls, sourdough, jokes for two….

The bedsheet, lifted, settling through the air,
domes with her shape, as if she’s sleeping there—
his dancing partner, witness, teacher, friend.
It’s no fun dancing solo. So he pats
and tugs the barely rippled covers flat
now that his spooning days are at an end.